


MJN Flight 5390

by quirkysubject



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Crossover, Dirty Talk, First Time, Inspired by Real Events, John is in denial, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Martin Crieff is Precious and must be Protected, Multi, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Undernegotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, air accident, semi-rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-01-10 18:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12305055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: After the events of The Great Game, John joins Sarah on a trip to New Zealand. Here's what happens when John takes an early flight home.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In the Cabin Pressure 'verse, events take place after St. Petersburg but before Vaduz.

_And sometimes the avalanche depends on one snowflake. Sometimes a pebble is allowed to find out what might have happened—if only it had bounced the other way._

Terry Pratchett, _Jingo_

* * *

The engineer on night shift closed the spare parts drawer with a clang. Out of p45-7 bolts _again_ , wasn't that just great. 

First the MD 3-12 was added to his shift at the last minute, then the ground crew parked it in a corner of the hangar so he could barely reach the blasted thing, and then he found that the bolts the last repair crew had used to fix the front wind screen weren't even the correct ones, so he'd have to replace those too. _If_ he could find any in this dump of an airport.

It was just typical. Management went on and on about procedure and quality control and four-eye-principles, but couldn't even keep them stocked up on the necessary equipment. No wonder everyone was piling up overtime.

He looked at the bolts that he had just removed from wind shield. They were slightly too short for that model of plane, but had held the screen in place without a hitch for five years. To get the correct fixings, he'd have to drive all the way to the other side of the airport and hope that the guys from the second hangar crew had some in stock. If they didn't, he'd have to place an order, which could take a few days to arrive, and then the plane wouldn't be ready to leave on schedule. No one would _blame_ him, of course, not officially, after all everyone wanted engineers to work by the book. Until someone actually did, and then suddenly his supervisors would only talk about cost efficiency and prioritizing and send him on time management courses.

He weighed the bolts in his hand. He wasn't actually _required_ to replace them. Most of his colleagues wouldn't even have noticed they were the wrong ones. If he just got on with it, he'd be able to finish his shift in time for once and meet his kids for breakfast.

It's what anyone else would do.

With a muttered curse, he threw the bolts into the trash and got into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dear subscribers: a proper new chapter is on its way as well.)


	2. Prologue

“Just get those two stupid idiots their stupid coffee or so help me God I’ll…” 

The senior flight attendant abruptly cuts herself off as she pulls the ratty drape separating the galley from the passenger cabin open, so John and his fellow passengers (a dapper party of 16 senior citizens from Devonshire) never get to hear the rest of the sentence. In a split second her face transforms from thunderous to the most sharkish version of a service sector smile he has ever seen. 

Through the gap of the curtain, John can just make out the second flight attendant - a man with the personality of a cheery tornado - hurrying into the flight deck. The plane is tiny and there is no division between business and economy class, so John sits right at the front and gets an unfiltered insight into cabin crew behind the scenes antics.

The woman - Carolyn, according to her name tag, although John's instinct warns him to call her Ma’am - carries a tray with paper cups. Probably lukewarm, over-steeped Earl Grey (why is it _always_ Earl Grey?), but any tea is better than no tea, especially on the first leg of a 38-hour return trip from the absolute worst vacation John has ever…

The blast wave knocks the breath out of John’s lungs. Ear-splitting, screeching noise fills the cabin as smoke erupts. Bomb, must be a bomb, an IED or a surface-to-air missile or… Only his seatbelt keeps him fixed in his seat as the plane’s tail tips up and it plunges down. His stomach turns with the movement and the realisation freezes all other processes in his brain. 

Down. 

They’re going down. 

It’s impossible to hear anything but the most piercing screams over the rushing wind, as if a window had been opened on the motorway but at 10 times the speed. Shoes and luggage are being hurled through the air, hitting people and the sides of the plane.

It’s the sight of the stewardess, on her hands and knees, face covered in blood, that pulls John out of his shock. She was just a few feet away from him when it happened, at first but he couldn’t see anything through the smoke. Now the air is clearing and it’s clear that she’s struggling.

He unclips his seat belt and stumbles the few steps down the aisle, kneeling at her side. 

“Get back in your seat”, she barks loud enough that John can just about make out the words over the wind blast, “There’s been…” She coughs and struggles to get enough air into her lungs, “…decompression.” 

She has a laceration on her forehead that probably isn’t as bad as it looks, but the blood is streaming into her eyes and he doesn’t know where else she might be hurt. “I’m a doctor. Let me have a look. Are you hurting anywhere else?” John’s voice sounds feeble in his own ears and he wheezes. Thin air at this height. Danger of hypoxia: diminished cognitive skills, disorientation, loss of consciousness. He looks up. Oxygen masks have dropped from the ceiling, flapping violently in the wind. If he can get her hooked up to one…

She shakes her head and gestures towards his seat. “Get your seatbelt back on. If this bloody thing…” 

The plane lurches again and begins to shudder so violently that John feels it in his bones. The stewardess grimaces as she’s forced to shift her weight on her injured leg to keep herself from toppling over. Then the plane settles and the vibrations stop as quickly as they started. The screams from the passengers die down into a frightened silence. 

That’s how John first hears the cries from the cockpit.

“…hold on, _hold on_! Help, God, please! Help me!” 

Carolyn blanches and tries to get back on her feet. 

“Wait…”

She puts both hands on his shoulders to push herself upright. “That’s my son”, she growls through gritted teeth. “If you want to be helpful, go back to your seat and stay put until…” John catches her when her leg collapses beneath her and she swears loudly. Some damage to her knee, just a sprain hopefully. 

Again, the desperate voice from the front of the plane. “Please, mom, someone, I can’t, can’t hold him…” 

Her face is set in grim determination. Without another word, John puts her arm over his shoulders and pulls her upright. He can’t do anything for her if she refuses to let him treat her, and if there are lives at stake in the cockpit, he might as well try to be of help there. Together, they struggle down the shaking aisle.

The cockpit is pandemonium. Warning sirens are blaring over the rush of the wind, papers whirling abound in the tornado-strength, icy cold wind, and the flight deck door has been ripped straight out of its hinges and crashed into the main control panel. The pilot in the Captain’s seat is clutching his control column in a white-knuckle grip while shouting an inscrutable mix of numbers and jargon into his headset. He looks frazzled and terribly young, but at least there _is_ a pilot alive and conscious and flying the plane. Under the circumstances, that counts as good news. 

What’s decidedly not good is the sight on the right hand side on the cockpit. The steward is standing in front of second pilot's seat, leaning forward and reaching out of the...

John's mouth falls open. 

Out. He’s reaching _out_ of the fucking… Somehow, a modern jet aircraft has just lost part of its windshield mid-flight. 

And it looks as if the steward is about to go out. 

John leaps forward and grasps the man around the middle. Only then does he realize that he hasn't been the first one with that idea.

"Oh, thank God", the young man shouts over the wind blasting directly into his face. "Can you pull back a bit more? I think Douglas is slipping."

In a scene John would have called cheesy and ridiculous if he saw it in a movie, the second pilot has been sucked out of the window, with only his legs - which the steward is holding on to - remaining inside. 

"What the..." John grips the steward hard and yanks him back. The plane swerves almost knocking John off his feet. 

"Stop!" It’s Carolyn. "His feet have snagged on the flight controls. Don't just yank on him!" She hobbles towards them until she can sit in the jump seat a little to the left of John. She puts her arms through the shoulder straps and reaches forward until she can grab her son's belt.

"Can you hold him?"

She gives him a withering look.

Still hesitant to trust the lives of two men to the upper body strength of an injured elderly lady, John releases his grip slowly, carefully. When the steward remains in position, John wedges himself in between the middle console and the seat so he can just about reach the pilot's legs. His feet are indeed hooked under the flight controls, pulling it up and forward. It saved his life, as it has kept him from being sucked out completely, but now it’s driving the plane inevitably downward. 

The problem is that if John frees the first officer’s legs, that will only make it harder for the steward to hold on to him. He looks around for something to… ah. Working as quickly as the cramped space allows, he grabs the seatbelt and widens it as far as it will go. Then he reaches for the pilot's legs. 

He taps against the steward’s knee to get his attention. "On three, you pull back as hard as you can. OK?"

"OK." There’s a brief pause. "I'm Arthur", he says incongruously, his wide, frightened eyes staring down at John. 

"I’m John. Now Arthur, on my count." On three, the pilots feet come away from the control column just enough that John can loop the seat belt around them. John feels it in his stomach as the plane levels off.

It isn't a particularly stable construction, but the control column is free and as long as the steward can hold on, it should be enough. “Do you think we can pull him in? If I help?”

“I don’t… don't think so. He seems to be really firmly stuck.” The steward buries his head in the crook of his elbow to shield his face from the merciless wind blast. John has no idea how high up they are but the wind chill is colder and more cutting than anything he has ever felt.

Now that he’s free to move around, John gets a closer look at the co-pilot. He is bent backwards around the upper edge of the window frame, his back pinned to the roof of the cabin by the wind. If they pull too hard against that pressure, they could easily injure his back or neck. Maybe if the plane went slower, a lot slower… John isn’t an expert on aerodynamics, but he’s pretty sure airplanes have to go fast in order to stay in the air. 

A flashing light goes off and another horn starts blaring. The pilot reaches for something on the dashboard, but can't get to it because of the flight deck door covering the whole panel. The pilot tries to dislodge the door, but with only one hand available and his attention on controlling the plane, it doesn’t budge. 

“Overspeed", Carolyn yells. "The door, get the bloody door away from the throttles.” She nudges him with her foot when he doesn't react promptly enough. Not painfully hard, but insistent. 

John has to twist and turn to move inside the narrow space. He grips the door with both hands and tries to pull it off, but it’s too tightly wedged. Anger bubbles up in his stomach. He’s not going to... explode in midair or whatever is going happen if they continue overspeeding because of some stupid door. He pulls himself up to his full height and presses his hands against the low ceiling of the flight deck, praying to whoever is listening that none of the buttons he’s inadvertently pressing are too important. Then - after checking that the pilot's hand is safely out of the way - he smashes the heel of his foot into the door.

It breaks right down the middle. A few more kicks and it shatters into six pieces, which John can easily lift away and throw into the galley. 

Leaning forward to retrieve the pieces of the door brings John into the pilot's line of sight for the first time. The man glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but it is only for a second before the task of flying the crippled jet demands his full attention. As soon as the dashboard is clear, he reaches for the throttle and pulls back. Immediately, the rattling stops and the deafening sound of the airstream quietens enough that John can hear the pilot speaking into his headset.

“... Echo Romeo Tango India.”

“Golf Echo Romeo Tango India roger, Wellington control, one three two decimal eight, I hear you strength 5, sir, go ahead now.”

“Roger sir, we have had an, er, an emergency pressurization and requesting, er, radar assistance please for the nearest airfield.” He sounds harried, not panicking yet, but not far from it either.

“Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, roger. Can you accept landing at Hood Aerodrome at Masterton?” 

“Golf Tango India, I’m familiar with Wellington would appreciate Wellington” But just a second later he interrupts ATC’s answer. “Golf Tango India, if you can direct me into Hood? Affirmative.”

"Okay sir, would you prefer Hood or Wellington?" 

A blinking light goes off and the pilot gets distracted flicking some switches. John sorely wishes he'd gone into the RAF only so he could help fly the bloody thing and didn't just have to sit here.

"Er, Golf Echo Romeo Tango India, confirm you wish to route now to Hood Aerodrome.” 

"Golf Tango India, er, we have fuselage, er...sorry." The pilot shakes his head and draws two quick deep breaths, desperately trying to get a grip. "Golf Tango India, I am maintaining one one zero. I'm at one fifty knots requesting radar assistance into Hood Aerodrome.”

John understands little of the succession of numbers and directions that follow, but the pilot seems to regain some sompusure the longer the conversation goes on. He turns the plane into a curve, which prompts a yelp from Arthur. 

Alarmed, John reaches for the steward. 

"...shifted...", is all John can make out. But he doesn't need to hear more, because as soon as he turns towards the window, it’s obvious what happened. 

The body of the second pilot, which had initially been lying on the roof of the cockpit, has slid down sideways and is now being pressed against the window. The pane is smeared with a thick streak of blood and the pilot's head is banging against the glass.

“Douglas!” Arthur shouts. 

“Don’t look, dear.” 

The pilot’s face is hitting the wind screen, eyes open but unseeing. 

“I think he’s dead, mom.” Arthur’s voice is filled with disbelief. “I think he’s dead.” Only the rushing of air fills the cockpit as they all consider the consequences. 

“No”, Arthur yells at the unspoken suggestion. 

John does the math in his head. The force that must have been working on the co-pilot when he was sucked out of the window would have been enough to crack his skull or break his spine, and then the combined effects of wind chill and oxygen starvation throughout the flight… yes, by all odds, Arthur is holding on to a dead body. But then, John has seen a 93 year old with a heart embolism come back to life 10 minutes after he’d stopped giving her CPR, so there’s no way he’ll let this man go out of the window as long as there is still an ounce of strength in any of them. 

The pilot speaks up, addressing them for the first time since John entered the flight deck. “No. Hold onto him, please, if you can.” 

Carolyn nods. “Of course we will, Martin.” 

John can’t help feeling touched by the obvious regard this crew have for one another.

Then Carolyn turns to John and speaks directly into his ear, so her son can't hear her. “If we let go, he could damage the leading edge of the wing. Or even the engine and then God help us.”

Alright. Regard yes, but when speeding through the air in a crippled jet, practical thinking takes a front seat. 

The fly like that for long, cold minutes, the grim silence only broken by the captain's communications with ATC: Arthur holding on to Douglas, Carolyn holding on to her son and John perched between the two seats to step in if necessary. And it doesn't take long before he does, because soon the steward is showing signs of complete exhaustion – Eyes shut tightly, numb fingers threatening to loose their grip. 

It takes some convincing, but in the end Arthur has to admit he can’t hold on for much longer and and trades places with John. 

For a moment, they both hold on together, as Arthur seems unwilling to let go even now. "I've got him", John says. "Promise." Then the full weight of the first officer's life is in his hands.

And fuck, fuck, _fuck_ it’s cold. He loses all feeling his fingers almost instantly. 

John tries to think of a way to pull the pilot back inside now that they are going at a lower speed, but with him bent at the hips like that and the wind blast pinning him to the airframe, there’s no way they have the strength to do that. They do manage to rearrange him so his feet are over the back of his seat rest and Carolyn can hold on to his ankles directly. 

The steward crouches against the wall of the cockpit. He looks shell-shocked. 

"Arthur." John has to repeat his name a few times before the young man (and he looks awfully young right now) looks up at him. "Are you hurt?"

He shrugs, but holds out his arms. "It's all numb." He pushes his tattered shirt-sleeves up with uncoordinated, sluggish movements. The severe frostbite is obvious even from a distance. The skin is a greyish-white. There is some reddened blistering especially around the hands and fingers. Now that they are flying at a lower altitude and speed, the windchill on John's hand is still biting, but higher up the temperatures must have been devastating. 

"Do you have any spirin around? Ibuprofen?"

"There’s a medical kit in the galley." 

"Can you get up and get it? And maybe a blanket as well? As many as you can find." They are all in their shirt sleeves and chilled to the bone. 

The steward nods and limps off. Normally, John would tell him to get some tea as well, to get his core temperature back up quickly, but he doesn’t want him to handle a water boiler with his injured hands. So when he returns, all John can do is tell him to put his hands in his armpits and huddle under a blanket. It isn’t much but it will minimize the damage until they land and he can get proper medical attention. 

_If_ they land.

"...one zero one millibars. The runway in use is runway zero two. The wind is three five zero degrees at twelve knots." 

It's a different ATC guy now. John assumes, _hopes_ , this means that they’re nearing an airport. 

"Roger, sir. I am not familiar with Hood Aerodrome. I request you shepherd me onto the runway, please."

"Roger, that is copied. Roll out then to a heading of one eight zero."

"Radar heading of one eight zero, Golf Echo Romeo Tango India.”

"Golf Tango India, what is your number of persons on board?"

"We have 17 passengers and 4 crew, sir."

"And we've been advised that it's pressurization failure - is that the only problem?"

"Er. Negative, Sir. The er. The first officer is half sucked out of the aeroplane. I understand... I believe..." He falters as his eyes flicker to the gruesome sight to his right. "I believe he is dead."

Static crackles.

"Roger that is copied. Continue your descent then at 2000 feet. QNH one zero one niner..."

The captain and ATC trade numbers again for a few minutes. The plane seems to be descending steadily and there are no more sirens and warning sounds going off. Bit by bit, John's mind comes out of its laser focus and he begins to take in the whole scene around him. 

Part of the windshield has gone missing, but there is no fire, no damage to the steel frame and - as far as John can see - no injuries that indicate a bomb blast. So something else must have caused the pane on the right hand side to blow out. The thought that the airplane might simply be losing parts without any outside force is almost more frightening than a terrifying but obvious terrorist attack.

“You a pilot?” The captain keeps his eyes focused on his instruments when he speaks to John. 

Lord, he wishes. “Army Doctor."

This is met by a brief nod, then the pilot's attention is directed back to his landing approach. 

"Turning right onto one eight zero. Er, Could you please confirm that the length of your runway at Hood is acceptable for a 3-12?”

“Yes, it is acceptable for a 3-12 and I’ll give you the figures very shortly.”

“As long as we have a least 2000 metres I’m happy.” 

Static again.

“I’m afraid we don’t have 2000 metres. We have a maximum of 1500 metres.”

Shit. John has no idea how the relative length of runways work, but if a pilot ask for 2000 and only gets 1500, that can’t be a good thing. He looks over at the captain. He blinks rapidly a few times and presses his lips tightly together, but when he answers ATC, his voice is level. 

“Golf Tango India, that is acceptable.” 

Not like he has much of a choice. 

The pilot goes on. "Do you have an ILS frequency?”

"Negative. I have a VOR but it will be radar vectors onto the visual final."

Great, so they don't have an ILS either. Whatever an ILS is. His pilot wants one, so John really wants his pilot to have one. John gets the feeling that this airfield they are going to isn't exactly the New Zealand equivalent of Heathrow. 

"Golf Tango India, thank you very much. We are three greens and flaps 45 so I'm set up for an approach but make it please very gentle."

"Yes, I will do indeed. You are number one in traffic."

The captain's lips actually quirk upward at his, like it’s a quiet, private joke. "Golf Tango India, thank you."

"Golf Tango India is nine miles from touchdown. You are clear to land. The wind indicates zero two zero degrees one four knots. Descend to height one five zero zero feet on the QFE one zero one seven."

Only 1500 feet above the ground. They are getting close. Landing won't be easy, but John's hands have already gone completely numb from the wind chill and he is terrified the first officer might yet slip from his grasp before they are on the ground. 

"Roger sir, descending to fifteen hundred feet. Talk me down all the way, I need all the help I can get."

"Roger, that is copied."

And whoever that ATC guy is, he delivers. He keeps reading out their altitude, distance from the runway, air pressure and wind speeds, assuring the pilot that he has the airspace to himself and that emergency personnel is standing by. The pilot, on the other hand, is unfailingly polite, acknowledging and thanking ATC for every update despite the other man’s assurances that he doesn't have to. It is a very British, well Commonwealthish, emergency. 

The stream of reassurances from ATC raises John's confidence that they might be able to get the plane down, but in what condition he has no idea. What else has failed, besides the window? The landing gear? The breaks? Although it feels like days ago, it can't have been more than an hour since take-off and they were headed for a 10-hour flight - which means they are sitting on thousands of tons of fuel. If they crash, they'll go up in flames.

Carolyn makes a cabin address. Arthur is in no condition to prepare the passengers and she is still holding on to the first officer’s feet, taking valuable pounds of pressure off John. She tells them that they are landing at Hood Aerodrome at Masterton, that apart from the depressurization the plane is intact and the captain in control. Her voice is filled with a calm authority that sounds almost bored, as if incidents like that are a routine part of flying. 

Still, her address ends with the instruction to brace for landing "merely as a safety precaution". Right.

"...three miles from touchdown. You are clear to land."

"Golf Tango India, thank you. I have the runway in sight."

John's heart is pounding. Very close now. At 150 knots they'll be touching down in less than a minute.

"Thank you and you are clear to land. Do you wish me to continue with further information?"

"Negative."

"Roger, remain on this frequency."

"Golf Echo Romeo Tango India."

The muscles in John's forearms are burning. There’s no way he's going to let go, not now, but God, please, let it be over soon. He doesn't want to watch the approach, so he turns his gaze to the pilot flying instead. He is pale and slight and with his windblown ginger curls he looks more like a cadet than a captain. Hopefully that means he is some kind of flying prodigy. 

He is gripping the controls so hard that the muscles stand out on his forearms, but he looks calmer, more determined than when John had first entered the cabin. He has his goal in sight, there is no more radio traffic to handle, and the situation is as controlled as flying a jet without a windshield can be. He just has to put it down in one piece. 

Touchdown is the smoothest John has ever experienced. Even before they are stopped, John can hear clapping and cheering from the passenger cabin. 

In the cockpit, there is no time to bask in relief. As soon as the plane has slowed down enough, Carolyn and Arthur take over holding on to the first officer, while John half climbs out the missing window onto the nose of the plane.

The man hangs twisted over the side of the cockpit. Now that there is no air stream to prop him up, his limp body has slipped down so he’s facing the tarmac. Sirens are closing in on them, but there is no way John is going to sit back and let valuable seconds tick by. 

He’s a sturdy man, not easy to lift, but somehow the three of them manage to pull him onto the nose of the plane. John instantly reaches for his carotid. His fingers are stiff and numb from the cold, but he thinks he just felt... dammit.

He blows into his fingers to warm them, rubs his hands violently, and tries again. 

"There's a pulse", he yells. 

The captain stops his procedure. He looks up, face slack with hopeful disbelieve. 

"He's alive", John repeats, and the captain simply crumples. He buries his face in his hands, his narrow shoulders shaking. 

"...get him inside? Come on!" John's focus is drawn to Carolyn, whose expresses her relief in brisk activity and a commandeering manner. 

For the first time since they landed, John raises his eyes to look beyond their immediate situation, this small group of terrified people forming the improvised cockpit crew. The first emergency vehicles are screeching to a halt alongside their plane and rescuers are swarming out, a crew of paramedics among them. 

John has no idea what kinds of injuries the first officer has suffered apart from the obvious. There is a high chance of damage to the spine or internal organs, and the less he is moved the better. It would probably be easier to lift him directly off the nose of the plane to the ground than to drag him inside the cockpit and then through the chaos of the narrow galley, past passengers and down the emergency ladders. 

He tells Carolyn as much, and she accepts his judgment with a curt nod before gathering her son and limping off the flight deck to take charge of her passengers. 

It takes all of two minutes for the paramedics to arrive on top of he plane and take the first officer off John's hands. After a flurry of terse medical information is volleyed back and forth, John is dismissed and leaves it to the professionals to get the patient safely onto the ground. A fire crew with a lift truck is already getting into place.

Feeling the exhaustion of the last... it feels like an eternity, but really it can't have been more than 40 minutes, 50 tops, John clambers back into to cockpit. The pilot is staring straight ahead at the control panel, hands alternating between pushing back his wild, curly hair and reaching for some instrumentation or other before fluttering away uselessly. 

"Hey", John says.

The pilot's head jerks up and he immediately sits up straighter, pressing his lips together tightly in an amateur play at calm professionalism. He actually does push some buttons, although his fingers are shaking so badly that John wonders if they’re even hitting their targets.

"We should go", John suggests, keeping his voice low. The captain - Martin according to his name tag - doesn’t look injured, apart from a subclinical case of hypothermia perhaps and some superficial cuts on his hands and arms, but shock can be devious.

"I still have... there are some... the checklists", the pilot stutters even as he closes his eyes and takes deep, desperate breaths through his nose. “Procedures. I must…”

He’s losing it, fast. There is a chaotic mess of papers flung all over the flight deck, and there is no way they’ll find the one they need right now. 

John reaches over to unbuckle the captain's seat belt. He offers no resistance but makes no move to get up either. "We are safe and on the ground. Let's get out of here."

“No.” For the first time, the man actually looks straight at him. His eyes are wide and light and shiny in his freckled face. He appears awfully young. But up close, some faint lines become visible over his nose and around his eyes, the only hint that he might actually be the proper age for a captain. “I have to do shut the plane down. Post-landing checks are an integral part of aviation safety and seeing as there is no immediate danger that would require me to evacuate the plane immediately….”

His voice is rough from overuse and tension, but there is a mulish expression on his face and the deep, heartfelt conviction with which he speaks tells John that he can either help him do whatever these checks entail (and hope they don’t blow up the plane by accident) or wrestle him out of his seat and out of the plane with brute physical force. John is pretty sure he’d manage, but it’s a battle he’d rather avoid. 

The captain is not done. “It would be a neglect of best practices to abandon these checks because of a minor emergency. Section 347b of the civil aviation code clearly states that…” 

John raises both hands in compliance. Martin’s hands might still be trembling like leaves, but it’s obvious that he is fully prepared to lecture John into submission. Best get this over with soon.

“Right, let’s do the checks. Though we’re never going to find the lists in this…”

“We don’t need the lists.” Martin made a dismissive wave with his hand. “It’s just that…” 

“What?”

“I… I really shouldn’t keep you here…”

Don’t go shy on me, baby, not now. “Tell me.”

“When I list an item from the checklist could you… I mean, really you shouldn’t even be here, but…”

The confident captain from just a minute ago is transforming into a stammering, fidgeting mess before John’s eyes. It’s an amazing if unwelcome transformation. 

“Don’t worry about that. Come on, tell what you need.” John has no clue about any of this, but he’ll do what he can. 

“I…”

One of the firefighters who has helped transporting Douglas from the nose of the plane pokes his head through the gap in the windshield and asks if they need assistance. After a brief back and forth about the state of the passengers (all safely off board, only four minor injuries) and aircraft (no structural damage apart from the blown out window), Martin assures her that they are just shutting the aircraft down and don’t need assistance.

The exchange seems to have restored some of Martin’s pilot-y confidence. “Right. So. When I read out an item, could you…”

“Yes?”

“Would you repeat it for me? Just repeat what I said?”

“Sure.” John has no idea why that would be necessary, but it’s something he can do, and if the captain thinks it'll help, he isn’t going to question it. 

“Oh. Good. Right.” Martin sounds surprised. He sits straight up, briefly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Wing flaps up.”

John repeats the words dutifully, feeling a bit silly. "Wing flaps up."

Martin reaches out and flips a switch. “Wing flaps up.” Then he lists the next instruction. 

John doesn’t understand what exactly he is adding to the procedure, but the effect it has on Martin is remarkable. His hands are becoming more and more steady as he pulls levers and presses buttons, and his instructions come without a stammer or hesitation. 

“Post landing checks complete, thank you, Doug… ah. Thank you.” The briefest twitch of a smile ghosts over his lips. There's something familiar about that, although John cannot place it. 

“John, and you’re very welcome, although I have no bloody idea what I just did.”

Martin laughs, a chuckle much deeper than his slight frame and his speaking voice would suggest. “It’s just, ah. Well I…” 

And he’s getting frazzled again. “It’s fine. Let’s just get off this plane, okay?”

Despite the reassurances about the fate of the passengers the fire fighter had given them, Martin insists on walking the length of the cabin once. Now that is something John completely understands and he waits patiently for him by the door. They go down the emergency slide, which isn’t as much fun as the name suggests, and are immediately separated and whisked off to waiting ambulances for a quick check-up. 

The last of the adrenaline is wearing off and John is really starting to feel every one of his overworked muscles. He must have pulled at least two in his shoulders. His forearms and hands are weak from holding onto the first officer for so long. His hands are rough and reddened from the cold, the skin abraded by glass particles in some places, but there is no major freezing damage. A couple of days rest and he’d be fine. 

Still, he lets the medics check him thoroughly. Making a fuss will only make their job harder and keep him there longer. And to be honest, it feels good to just sit and let someone else take over for a while.

The whole airstrip is crawling with emergency workers, airport officials, police officers and - increasingly - press. They aren’t allowed inside the perimeter around the airplane and emergency vehicles, but John can see them interview officials, filming and taking photos. 

It's going to be quite a story for the local news.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin makes a friend or twenty.

`- Douglas awake. Even more insufferable when drugged. C`

Martin drops his head onto the pillow, weak and shaky with relief. If Carolyn is already complaining about Douglas, he must not only be awake but also in pretty good shape. And to think that he almost…

But he hadn’t. They’d held on to Douglas and he’d brought the plane down and everyone had survived. That is all. That's what's important. He shouldn’t focus on…

Oh, but the nagging voices in his head insist. They are rarely quiet, incessantly worrying and criticizing and judging and they only became louder when he tells them to shut up. He’d read a book on positive thinking once. Maybe other people’s brains could be re-engineered for positivity, but his merely shrugged and pointed out that he’d just spent £5,95 he didn’t have on a book that didn’t work.

Martin rakes his hands through his hair and takes deep breaths. He really wants to take a shower, but his over-night bag is still on the plane, so he’d have nothing to put on but his uniform. It’s grimy and rancid with sweat and putting it back on after a shower is the last thing he wants to do. A dressing gown comes with the room, but he has no idea when they’ll want to take his statement and he can hardly greet the investigators in a fluffy white bathrobe. 

He’s already been questioned briefly by police and airport officials, but a more in-depth interview has been scheduled for when the official air crash investigators have arrived. After the questioning, he sat through an uncomfortable hour of unnecessary psychological counselling - they were all fine, weren’t they? - and an almost as uncomfortable phone call to his mum, who said she was proud of him and called him brave although it wasn’t true and even if it were, how would she know? She hadn’t been there.

Late in the afternoon, he’d been brought into a hotel in the heart of the small city. It’s quite posh, much better than their usual accommodation. And now that Martin is thinking about it, he realizes he has no idea who’s paying or it. Will he be presented with the bill? His stomach lurches at the thought of the havoc that would wreak on his carefully balanced finances. But if it goes on MJN’s tab, that isn’t much better. Lord knows how long Gerti is going to be grounded, and the repairs, and the airport bills and the cancelled flights must be be adding up already. Not to mention… 

Oh God, the stories that must be circulating about them on the news. Who would want to fly on an airplane whose windows just disappear in mid-flight? Where people are sucked out at 17000 feet with no prior warning? Whose pilot might break down under stress, unable to conduct the most basic post-landing procedures without having his hand held. That doctor, John, he’s seen it all and been so very understanding and professional, but if the journalists get hold of him, if he tells them his story… Oh god, they’ll have his license revoked in a heartbeat.

There is a remote on the bedside table, but Martin can’t bring himself to turn on the telly. He presses his hands over his eyes and breathes deeply, desperate to keep the sobs inside. Pathetic, useless, even now.

Martin is saved by a knock on the door. 

He jumps off the bed and rearranges his features into something he hopes resembles a functional adult male. A porter brings him his flight bag and a message that he’s going to be interviewed tomorrow morning, so he doesn’t have to worry about that for today at least.

There isn’t much in his flight bag - they were supposed to be back in England the next day, so he packed light - but he finds some fresh underwear, a shirt and a barely worn pair of jeans. 

The shower is too hot and he stays there too long. Afterward, his skin glows bright red as if it had been scrubbed it with a wire brush. He carefully hangs up his uniform and tries to shake some of the dust and debris out of it, but gives it up as a lost cause. He folds it up and dresses in his jeans and a comfortable shirt. He’ll bring the uniform to the cleaners. Maybe they can get it back in shape for in time for the interview tomorrow. 

If he’s going down, he’ll face it with as much dignity as he can muster.

~~~

John is on his third bowl of peanuts. He should have walked out of the pub when he realized it wasn’t the kind that served proper food, but the atmosphere is friendly and they have a good selection of local brews, so he’s decided to make do with the snack offerings. He can always grab a sandwich from a corner shop on his way back to the hotel.

He uses the time to dash off a quick blog entry, reassuring everyone back home that he is fine and they shouldn't worry. This of course causes everyone to be really worried. It feels sort of nice, although it takes half an hour and a dozen comments just to reassure Mrs Hudson alone. Sherlock, the arse, merely sends him a single text letting him know that any delay of more than 24 hours would not be acceptable.

John very deliberately ignores him. His duty done, all he wants is sit in a quiet corner where he can’t see the telly mounted over the bar, let the noise wash over him and get pleasantly sloshed. He’s earned it. 

It takes him way longer than it should have to recognize him. The jeans-and-plain-button-down combination throws him. It’s only when their eyes met and the man’s face lights up with recognition that John realizes who he is. Acting on impulse, John raises his eyebrows and nods towards the empty seat beside him. 

Martin hesitates, but after a brief detour to the bar, he sits down at John’s table with two pints of beer. They raise glasses in a toast and drink in silence. 

“So.” John fiddles with the coaster as he digs for a conversation starter. Shouldn’t be hard with a guy you were in an almost air crash with but there you go. “How’s your first officer? Douglas, is it?”

“Oh good, he’s… well not _good_ , obviously but…” Martin takes a swig of his beer that is slightly too large and coughs. “He’s okay, I mean. Under the circumstances. Awake.”

Awake? That's impressive. John would have expected him to remain in an artificial coma for a few days. There can’t be too much internal damage if they just let him wake up. “Good. That’s good.”

Another silence falls.

“And you?” 

“Oh, I’m fine.” Martin’s smile is too big. “Fine.”

John nods. “I know.”

“Know?”

“I’m a Captain too. Army though, not pilot.” It must be that pint already rattling around his almost empty stomach that makes him volunteer that information. 

Martin’s mouth forms an o of understanding. It’s then that John really sees it. The similarity is entirely in the details, visible only on the second or third glance. If Martin had walked by John in the street, he wouldn't even have noticed. They are just too different when it comes to the broad strokes: stature, posture, attitude, style. 

Martin is no taller than John and easily two stone lighter, while Sherlock towers over everyone (even people taller than him). Martin is a freckled redhead where Sherlock is tall and dark. There is no impressive posturing, he looks fidgety and nervous and not at all imperious. And that jumper is a far cry from Sherlock's fitted shirts.

No, it’s the small things. The same ridiculous mouth and high cheekbones, the same long-fingered, elegant hands. John tries to see if there is anything about his thumb that betrays his profession, but he comes up empty. Martin's eyes have the same shape as Sherlock's, but they are a darker blue, their colour more fixed. There’s a familiar richness in his voice, but the register is little higher, and the stutter he gets when he's flustered is the opposite of Sherlock's cutting precision. 

Martin clears his throat. John looks down at his glass. He’s probably been staring for way too long. "I... Well, thank you. For today I mean."

John raises his glass "You too."

Martin grimaces. "Oh no, that was just... I mean... Douglas would probably have gotten us down in half the time."

What a strange thing to say for a captain about his first officer. "Not while hanging out the window, he wouldn't have."

"No, of course not, but...." Martin rubs one hand over his face and sighs. "I really just want to say thank you. Without you... who knows what would have happened." 

“You would have landed the plane anyway, Carolyn and Arthur would have somehow held on to Douglas, everything would have worked out just the same." Arthur would probably have sustained bad injuries to his arms and hands if he's been forced to hold on to the first officer much longer, and Martin might have ended up in shock after landing the plane without anyone to talk him down, but it would have been fine in the end. Mostly. 

"You think so?" 

"Yeah." 

They both stare at their respective beers for a second. 

"Can I ask you something?" 

"Sure", Martin says, sounding a little apprehensive. 

"Why did you have me repeat the checklist items for you? You obviously knew what needed to be done, so..."

"Oh. Well that's a bit silly probably, but..." He takes a deep breath and a sip of his beer. "The only time I've ever been in an emergency before, a real emergency, I mean, not just a tricky thunderstorm to maneuver around or something, Douglas was sitting next to me, reading out the checklist for me. I'm perfectly qualified to fly Gerti on my own, of course..."

"Gerti?"

"The plane." Martin blushes a little. "Er, her call-sign? Golf Echo..."

"...Romeo Tango India." Of course. He had heard the words so often they'd be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. "Right. Go on."

"Well, as I said, I can fly her on my own, for short hops and Cargo flights, but usually it's the two of us. One reads the checklist, one performs the checks. It's..." Martin clears his throat and ducks his head. "Don’t laugh, but it's soothing in a way. The back and forth. Normal."

For the life of him John can't imagine what anyone would find funny about that. "Glad I could help." At least he hadn't been forced to just sit there, uselessly watching Martin descend into a panic. 

John stretches his shoulders and cracks his neck. Enough of the post-mortem. "So, how long you been flying for..."

"Excuse me?"

A pretty, dark-eyed woman is standing next to their table, smiling down at them. John instinctively straightens up and raises his chin just enough to make him appear half an inch taller. But her smile isn’t directed at him.

"You're the pilot, aren't you?" She bites her lip and raises one expressive eyebrow. "From that plane today?"

"Oh. Ah. Yes, I am... a pilot, that is. Maybe not _the_ pilot, not like..." Martin laughs nervously and much too loud. "I mean, I did come here on a plane and..."

John watches the scene in fascinated horror, like a car-crash unfolding in slow-motion. What the hell is Martin doing?

"I mean the pilot that's all over the news? Who saved his co-pilot and the crew and passengers from crashing?” She has the cutest Kiwi accent and yes, she is definitely flirting. Luckily for Martin, it looks like she finds his stammering cute.

"I didn't... I mean I did, in a way, save them, but not like _save_ them, not like I'm Batman and they're..." He falters his repertoire of pop-culture references dissolving in the heat of those smouldering looks. 

"Louis Lane?" John suggests sweetly, grinning into his beer. There’s absolutely no way he’ll try and compete with Martin for that girl – not that he has a chance in hell with her anyway – but that doesn't mean he won't tease. 

"Yes, Louis... what? No!" John can see the heat shooting into his cheeks. 

"Well." The woman takes a small notebook from her pocket and places it on the table in front of Martin. "Me and my friend over there", she gestures at another young woman a few tables over, who half-hides her face behind her hands at the attention, "we were just wondering if we could get an autograph."

"An... _my_ autograph?"

Martin obviously has trouble coming to terms with the fact that this absolutely stunning woman is talking to him in the first place - wrapping his mind around the fact that she wants his autograph seems completely beyond him. 

"Yes." She has her eyes fixed on the prize. "Well, two autographs, if that's alright with you."

"Sure..." Slowly, as if he still half-expects to break out into laughter, he takes the notebook and pats his pockets for a pen. Then he freezes and frowns at her. "Did Douglas send you?"

"Who?" She looks back at her friend, confusion plain on her face. "No, that's Leyla over there, she..."

John uses her confusion as cover and kicks Martin under the table. God knows what kinds of pranks the first officer likes to play on him, he won't stand by and let Martin self-sabotage an opportunity like that. They might barely know each other, but that’s just basic manners. 

"Of course. Sorry. I'm still a bit..." Martin finally finds a pen and scrawls his name into the notebook. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name?" 

"Michelle."

"...for Michelle", he mutters under his breath as he writes. And then draws a little airplane next to it. Michelle must find it heartbreakingly endearing, if her delighted little squeal is anything to go by.

At her request, Martin writes a second autograph for her friend. Now that he’s got over the first shock, he seems to enjoy the attention. 

"Thank you so much." Michelle clutches the autographs to her chest. "It’s such an honour to meet you. And thank you for your bravery."

She turns to leave, then stops as if she’s just had an idea and scribbles something into the notebook herself. Damn if John doesn't know where this is going. Oh well. The lucky bastard deserves it. 

She tears out the page, folds it up and puts it under Martin's glass. Then she backs off with one last wink in his direction. 

Martin stares at John. "Did she just...?"

"Oh yes." Back at her table, Michelle is getting cheerfully scolded by her friend, who looks almost as embarrassed by the whole episode as Martin. "Cheers, mate."

Martin takes the paper, gingerly unfolds it, reads it for far longer than the short note merits and puts it in his pocket. 

“One number or two?” 

“Uhm. Two”, Martin admits, ears burning. 

“Impressive. Sooo…” John leans forward on the table. “Gonna take them up on it?”

Martin steals a glance at the women sipping their drinks. “Ah, no. Probably not.”

“Not your type?”

“Not really.” 

“Oh.” John pretends like his heart doesn't do a little double-beat at that. Residual adrenaline from an exciting day, two pints in his system, a dry spell that's already been lasting longer than the Roman Empire… doesn’t mean it has anything to do with the guy opposite him. He’s probably just the most convenient target for John’s pent up libido. Wires getting a little crossed, nothing that hasn't happened before. Doesn’t mean anything, really. 

But already Martin is all aflutter again. “Oh no, I don’t mean… I just meant…” Martin sighs, closes his eyes and although he doesn’t move his lips, John just knows he’s mentally counting to five. “God, I’m rubbish at this.” He shakes his head. “I’m just not the type to pick up people in pubs,” he says, finally. People, not women, John’s lizard brain dutifully notes. “Especially not tonight. I’d babble so much they’d flee half way to the hotel.”

John doubts that Michelle is the type to be scared off once she’s got her sights set on someone, but decides to keep that to himself. Respecting boundaries and all that. “So”, he says, fishing for an innocuous topic. “What does MJN stand for anyway?”

~~~

“And then Douglas said: You took my Petrus ’05… and you… _mulled_ it?!”

John giggles into his glass. He genuinely looks like he’s enjoying himself. Martin isn’t used to people actually enjoying his flying stories. The fact that John is currently on his third pint probably helps. 

“You should start a blog”, John says. “The Adventures of the flying men in their rusty machine.” He grimaces at the clunky pun, the shrugs. “I’d read that’”

“And scare away our last precious handful of customers? Carolyn would kill me.”

“Anonymously, then.” 

“Nah, I’m not much of a writer. Douglas could do it, probably. He’s got a way with words.”

“I like _your_ stories just fine.” John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, angling his body a bit more towards Martin. “So. No writing, no picking up people in bars… What _do_ you do when you’re not flying?”

Oh God, not that. It's going so well and now that. He can feel the dreaded stutter constricting his throat before he even starts to speak. _Fib_ , he hears Douglas’s voice in his head. _Just make something up. Gardening. Deep-sea diving. Croquet. Anything_ But if he does that (he’s tried!) the other person would want to be polite and take an interest and ask questions about his hobby and then he’d have to come up with details on the fly and… And with his luck, he’d probably pick an area of life-long passion to John and then he’d be exposed for the fake he is.

Accepting there is no possible way he can pull his off, he goes for his tried and true brand of fake nonchalance and vagueness. “Ah. Just. You know. This and that. More of an easy-come easy-go guy.” He listens to himself in horror at the words leaving his mouth, unable to stop himself. He smoothes a hand through his hair, knowing full well it will only make it messier. And John doesn’t look convinced either. “I mean, with work and all I’m quite busy. Really busy.” He chokes out the last words and then reaches for his glass to drown himself with ale. 

“Hm. So business is going well then? That’s something, at least.”

Martin snorts. “Yeah right.” It must be the ale. That has been his perfect opening to just agree and change the subject back to wacky flying stories (and God knows he has no shortage of those), but now it’s out and his “too busy captaining planes for my super-busy airline”-excuse is crumpling before his eyes. 

John tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Or not?” 

“If we weren’t quite going bust before, we are certainly going to now”, Martin confesses. “As long as Gerti is grounded, we’re missing out on paying jobs, and then there’s accommodation and airport fees and repairs to be payed for. That is, if they don’t shut us down for malpractice immediately. But even if they don’t, who on earth will book us now? The airline whose planes fall apart mid-flight? Where everyone’s in constant danger of being sucked out of windows?” 

“Whose cabin crew will risk their lives to save yours? Whose pilot will land a crippled aircraft with no casualties”, John interrupts softly.

“Well, he better, because that’s his bloody job.” He almost said 'what he's being paid for', but catches himself just in time. 

John shrugs. “Still a good story. Remember Sully?”

Does he remember- of _course_ , he remembers Sully. Everyone remembers him, he’s a living legend among pilots. “That was a bird strike. Bad luck. Could happen to anyone. No fault with the airline.” Or the captain. 

“Well, that window wasn’t your fault either. Who knows what happened there. Maybe it was…” He twirled one hand through the air between them. “A meteor.”

"A meteor?"

"Really small one."

Martin sighs. John means well, but wishful thinking isn’t going to make things better. This _is_ MJN’s death blow. And as Martin doesn’t have a gang of head-hunters offering him jobs lined up, it means full-time man-with-a-vanning for the time being. Which - because the universe sometimes squeezes in a lucky breaks before the next backhand - actually bides quite well for his finances. So there is absolutely no reason not to get famously hammered tonight. Well, a bit hammered. He _does_ have an interview tomorrow. Martin resolutely drains his glass. 

“Another one?” John nods, so Martin reaches for both their glasses and makes to get up. 

“You leave your arse in that chair.” Three pints slam down in the middle of the table. Martin looks up to find an intimidatingly mustachioed man looming over the two of them. “Been waiting for you two to finish up forever.”

Martin tentatively reaches for one of the pints. “I… er… thank you?”

“Thank _you_ , mate. You’re a bloody hero”, the man announces and turns to John. “Ain’t he?”

“Yup.” John takes the second pint, looking straight into Martin’s eyes and winks as he raises his glass. He looks like he's enjoying himself immensely. 

Heat creeps up Martin’s chest, over his neck and into his cheeks. His face must look as red his hair. He makes some desperate, deflecting noises, but there is no escaping the toast. Then the man - Ian as he informs them – slaps Martin’s shoulder so hard that he chokes on his beer, but thankfully, after a few more words of praise, he considers his job done and goes back to the bar.

“More your type”, John asks when Ian is well out of earshot. 

“I… ah… _what_?” Martin whips his head around to stare at John. “No!” Of course not. That guy terrifies him. Not quite as much as Michelle ( _and_ her friend, Christ!), but still. “I don’t…” God, he can’t deal with this.

Things like that just don’t happen to him. Unasked for chat-ups and appreciation of his skills just isn’t in the cards for him. Catastrophes and put-downs, _that_ he can deal with. When it comes to putting a brave face on rejection, he is second to none. But this is like he’s stumbled into a mirror world and none of his hard earned crisis-management skills are doing him any good. It should be the opposite of a problem really, but it just sets his teeth on edge, like he’s just waiting for the universe to pull the rug from under him and jolt him right back into misery.

“Just joking. Sorry.” John holds up both hands. “Not a very good joke.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a smartphone. He gives it a little wave and then starts typing. “Now I _really_ want to know what the news have to say about you.”

Anxiety spikes sharp in his chest. Martin clings to his beer and stares resolutely at it so he can’t see the screen of the phone. The angle they’re sitting at would have made it easy for him to get a glimpse, and he is not ready for that. There might be some praise for Carolyn and Arthur for saving Douglas, and maybe even some for him for landing the plane, but it would be embedded in accusations of negligence, complaints of traumatized passengers, couched in language of disaster and near-crash and catastrophic structural failure that would spell the end for MJN. He just can’t stomach it. 

“Jesus.” John chuckles. “Oh my God, that’s just…” He shakes his head. “Absolutely amazing”, he mutters under his breath. 

Martin steals a glance at John's face. Instead of shock and horror, it is lit up by a bright smile. Martin finds it quite difficult to turn back to his beer. 

“Have you seen this?” John looks up at him, eyes wide and sparkling, and Martin finds it hard to breathe. God, the air is sticky in here. 

Martin looks down just so he won’t embarrass himself, and right into the screen of the phone John holds out for him. He lifts a hand to block the view. “I’d rather not…”

Johns expression grows serious, concerned. His eyes search Martin’s face, a slight frown appearing on his forehead. Great. Leave it to him to spoil anyone’s mood. 

And then. A hand on his arm. Light, but very there. Martin can’t quite hide the surprised stutter in his breath. 

“It’s okay”, John says, and for a minute Martin thinks he’s referring to… but no, he’s nodding towards the screen of the phone. “It’s good news. You’ll want to see this, trust me.” There’s one last squeeze and then John’s hand is gone. 

Heart still thumping in his throat, Martin lowers his eyes again. 

It’s a twitter feed (at least Martin thinks it is - he hasn’t got a lot of time for social media and his understanding of the latest trendy platforms is hazy at best). John scrolls through it, pausing now and then to let him read the tweets. It’s difficult for Martin to see through the tangle of hashtags and retweets and emojis and acronyms, but soon words and phrases filter in.

`…Amazing piece of flying... Stone cold bastard just landed the thing like it was nothing…. Miracle… surprised they can even walk with balls that size... held on to that guys feet for 30 minutes while his HANDS WERE LITERALLY FREEZING OFF… those awesome fuckers… no fatalities…`

And there is a picture, appearing again and again with different captions and backgrounds photoshopped in. It’s him, Carolyn and Arthur, walking down the airfield, the crippled plane just visible in the background. The photo has been taken from behind against the midday sun, so they are visible only as silhouetted shapes. Martin remembers the moment dimly. He’d felt awful at the time, broken and drained, uncertain about Douglas’s odds, and utterly exhausted. 

But that’s not what the image looks like - or what the captions imply. The captions are… well they are ridiculous and exaggerated, containing words like heroes and badass and action movie quotes and all sorts of things Martin would never ever think in connection with himself. Or Arthur. Or Carolyn, if only because he wouldn’t dare. 

God. That next image even has a giant explosion photoshopped into the background, making it look like the three of them are calmly walking away from it, too cool to look back. 

John taps at the screen. “See that hashtag?” It reads _#MJNfuckyeah_. “It’s trending worldwide!”

“What?”

“You guys are going viral, mate.” John beams at him. He looks so genuinely happy for Martin, like he doesn’t care that other people are being celebrated while his own contributions aren't even mentioned. Martin steers his eyes carefully back at the screen. “What’s that?”

John clicks the link promising an exclusive interview. After a short introduction by a news-lady (with that same damned photo in the background, albeit without silly comments or explosions), the film cuts to a hospital room, showing a bed with a chipper looking Douglas Richardson in it. Even with his arm in a sling and a giant bandage around his head that idiot manages to look suave. The last nagging worries Martin still held about Douglas's injuries melt away. He'll come out fine. 

The pub is too noisy to hear what Douglas is saying, but Martin can just imagine it. Of course he wouldn’t pass up the chance of giving an interview to the world press even if it's just hours after he’d almost fallen out of an airplane, the twat. “Douglas will love that”, he says to John. “At the end of the interview, he’ll have everyone convinced he somehow landed the plance from outside the window, steering with his feet or something.” 

Now that hadn’t sounded bitter at all. 

But John shakes his head. He skims through a summary of the interview, containing quotes of the most important passages. “No he… he seems to be talking about you, mainly. Well and a bit about Carolyn and Arthur, but mostly it’s all about what a bloody fantastic pilot you are.”

Martin drains his beer. He feels like a ungrateful tit. 

“Sounds like he really admires you.”

Martin snorts into his beer. Right. More liked pumped to the ears with narcotics. 

“With that kind of press going around, no wonder everyone wants a piece of you.” John winks at him, bringing down another crashing wave of heat over him. 

He’s still stammering for an answer (and what could he _possibly_ say to something like this? He just doesn’t have the repertoire), when John interrupts him. “Sorry. Again. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh”. Get. A. Grip. “It’s fine. It’s all fine, really. Just. Bit overwhelmed right now.” He gestures in the general direction of the pub and the phone.

“Yeah, it would be. I…” John cuts himself off as the music from the speakers stops, conversations dying away to reveal the sound of metal clinking against glass. 

There’s a small, middle-aged man in rolled-up shirt-sleeves behind the bar - probably the landlord. Martin’s stomach coils in a feeling that is part excitement, part flight-instinct, like he wants to preen in the spotlight while hiding under the table. 

“Ladies and Gents, sorry to interrupt your no doubt fascinating conversations, but it looks like we have a very special guest tonight…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, neither plane crashes nor sex in this chapter. Bear with me my friends... 
> 
> Big thanks to Ariane De Vere, Goddess of Transcripts. We'd all be lost without her. 
> 
> As always: If you spot any easily fixed mistakes (spelling, grammar, mixed up body parts) or would like to beta the whole beast, please let me know! If you just liked the story, don't be shy, drop me a line.
> 
> ETA: Thanks to [whocares](/users/whocares/pseuds/whocares), who made the chapter much more coherent!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not like John _plans_ to end up in Martin's hotel room.

Out of hand, is how John would describe the situation. After the landlord’s announcements, a veritable scramble has begun among patrons to pay their respects to Martin. 

John had considered evacuating them out of there, because at first Martin looks nauseous and like fainting is a real possibility; but the first shock quickly yields to genuine pride and enjoyment and John would rather cut off his thumbs (well, okay, maybe one thumb) than take that away from him. In fact, Martin kind of grows into this new role, toasting, and giving autographs and praising the actions of his crew - and John’s actions, too, which leads to him being included in the festivities as well, although his role in the accident doesn’t play a big role on the news. The reports he’d seen only mentioned a passenger having aided the crew, but his name and photo aren’t out there. If Martin keeps talking about John like that, this may very well change. John tries to sit back and enjoy Martin’s moment in the limelight, but with all those pictures being snapped and tweets going out, it probably won’t be too long before the local press gets wind of them.

Martin is basking in the attention; it’s kind of amazing to watch. He is beaming with pride and that furious, embarrassed blush that filled his whole face has been replaced by two spots of colour on his cheeks, overlaid with a glowing sheen of sweat. It’s quite a spectacular look on him. John reminds himself to take his eyes off him from time to time. It’s so painfully obvious that he thrives on praise and attention and by God, John wants to give him that. Wants to tell him about his lovely lips and freckles and make him look up at him with eyes shining just like that. 

John takes a deep, cooling drink of the water he’d ordered on the last round. Christ, there are so many pics being taken all around them, he really needs to get a grip on himself. He doesn’t want to be “Creep Of The Week” on Facebook for leering at the hero of the day in the background of 1001 selfies. 

Also, he had just broken things off with Sarah (or rather, she had decided that this _thing_ between wouldn’t ever become one before it started) and is _not_ looking for a rebound shag. Also, Martin doesn’t pick up people in pubs. What he needs tonight is a mate to have his back, not one more arsehole trying to chat him up.

So there.

Also, (his mind belatedly adds) he doesn’t actually go for guys. Usually. Except when, well, that is a whole area of his psyche he doesn’t want to go into right now. He mostly just doesn’t. Not even when they look like something out of a fever dream.

Okay, time for a loo break. And some cold water straight down his pants, probably. A little distance and a good slap to the face might do him some good. 

John confines the water to the back of his neck, but it does help to calm him down, focus. When he walks back into the main room, the noise and heat is like a solid wall, but he can keep some mental distance instead of diving right in and being swallowed up. He actually has to use some elbows and growled _excuse me’s_ to make it back to their table, only to find his seat taken up by a one of Martin’s admirers. John puts on his friendliest smile, the one reinforced by a layer of stainless steel that says ‘trained to kill’, and quickly recaptures his seat. 

Immediately, there’s a hand on his arm. It’s mostly on his shirt but also a little bit on the bare skin of his wrist. John looks up to find Martin’s face just inches from his. 

“I have to...” Martin grimaces as the noise around them thickens with yet another triple hooray and the clatter of emptied glasses hitting wood. “Can we get out of here?” The roots of his hair are dark with sweat and there’s an edge to the excitement in his eyes. He flinches as the flash of a camera goes off right next to his face. 

“Sorry, could you turn that off, please.” 

The man - _boy_ \- waving the camera doesn’t understand that isn’t a question. “Nah, mate, it’s so dark in here, can’t get a decent snap otherwise.” Another two flashes. 

John stands up, chair scraping over the floor. He ‘s not a large man by any means, but the army, med school, and growing up as the big brother to a rebellious queer kid have taught him the value of posture. The flashes stop. 

John sits back down and leans towards Martin. “Let’s go then.”

“But I…” Martin waves at the small pile of notebooks, napkins and what John really hopes isn’t underwear that he is supposed to sign. 

“If they want an autograph, they can contact MJN. You guys are on Google, right?”

The trick here is speed. If they dawdle now, right in the middle of this huge celebration, all and sundry will try and get them to stay for one last drink, hear one last toast, shake just a couple of more hands. Not out of malice, but because they’re having such a good time. “Pretend to go to the loo,” John murmurs. “There’s a back door just round the corner. I’ll meet you out in five.” 

Martin nods and gets up, to the alarm of his fans. 

“He’s just taking a loo break,” John announces. “Come on, give the man five bloody minutes to himself.”

The ring of bodies thins out a bit as people shuffle to clear a path for Martin. When he’s gone, the focus of the crowd shifts away from their table as people pick up their conversations and many head towards the bar to get another round. John tries to look at uninteresting as possible and waits just long enough to have shifted out of people’s conscious thought before he makes his move. Unhurriedly, he picks up his and Martin’s jacket, gets out of his chair and walks to the back door. 

Don’t sneak, don’t run, just walk. 

He feels a tiny bit ungrateful to leave like that, but the party is well underway and he has no doubt everyone is going to have a grand night, with or without them.

The cool night air is a welcome change to the humid heat of the pub. John finds Martin in a side-street only a few paces from the pub, leaning with his back against a wall. His eyes are closed, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He isn’t all long, graceful lines wrapped in haughtiness, but there’s something about him that draws the eye, a vulnerability shimmering through a flimsy veneer of bravado. 

John leans next to him, taking in the silence around them. “Okay?” 

Martin takes one last, shuddering breath. “Okay.” He pushes himself off the wall. “Hotel?”

“Yeah.” John looks up the street. He doesn’t want the evening to end just yet. Although it feels like it's been a decade since he got out of bed this morning, there’s no way he can go to sleep already. His eye catches on the orange glow of a lampion, swaying faintly in the breeze. His stomach gurgles, reminding him that beer and peanuts don’t count as dinner for 40-year old man. “Fancy some Chinese?”

“Yes.” Martin stares at him for a moment, a look of surprise on his face, then chuckles. “God yes, I’m starving.” 

They carry two bags full of spicy, oily, crispy goodness back to the hotel. John insists on paying for both of them – Martin's fans have treated him to the finest selection of ales Masterton has to offer by, so it seems the proper thing to do, although Martin does put up an argument. 

They don’t discuss eating together, but end up in Martin’s room by silent agreement. It’s bigger than John’s, a junior suite at least, with a big, plushy sofa in addition to the king-size bed. John plunks down on the sofa and automatically reaches for the remote. 

“I’d rather… I mean. Could we just… sit?” Martin is standing in the middle of the room, looking lost as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt. 

“Sure.” John shrugs and puts the remote back on the table, trying to keep the mood light. Martin is probably sick of hearing about today’s events, even if the reports have a positive spin. Some quiet would probably do both of them good after the ruckus of the pub. 

John spreads the take-out cartons out on the table and bites into a spring-roll. It’s hot-greasy- salty perfection. After a few seconds, Martin sits down next to him and they eat in silence. Although John is ravenous, he manages no more than half a portion of fried egg-rice before an overwhelming heaviness settles in his limbs. He should probably force himself to get up and bid Martin goodnight, but the trip to his room looms cold and endless in his mind, while the sofa is really warm and comfy and… and it feels good just to have someone next to him.

He sets his bowl down on the table and sinks back into the sofa, rubbing his hands over his eyes. Next to him Martin is rustling with something. Oh, and speaking, too. “Hm?”

“…understand if you want to go to bed… to your room… now, but we could. If you wanted. Which you probably don’t. You must be tired and…”

“No no, I’m good, we can…” He nods eagerly and makes a "get on with it"-gesture with his hands. With some people such carelessness would be dangerous, but Martin doesn’t seem the type to drag him off to underground poker games with organized crime lords in the middle of the night. “Let’s.”

Martin hands him a brochure. The on-demand film programme. Yes, perfect. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been informed my taste in movies is soul-crushingly dull.”

“Dull sounds great.” John stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “Sorry. Probably going to miss most of it anyway so just.” He gestures with his hands. “Go wild.”

Martin gets the system up and running without a hitch. John has once spent the better part of an afternoon trying to get new telly plugged in, so he has a deep and abiding respect for people who can just pick up a remote and make things work like that. The movie that starts playing is some American comedy that feels vaguely familiar. It’s funny enough not to be irritating, but bland enough that John can just let it wash over him. It’s just the right combination to let him drowse in and out of slumber. 

The last time he wakes up, something is different. The film is still running, but John is wide awake, alert. Martin is staring at the screen, but looks miles away. His socked feet are on the sofa and he has his knees pulled to his chest, hugging them with his arms. He is holding on so tightly that his knuckles are white and deep, bloodshot grooves mark the spots where his nails have dug in. 

“Hey.” 

Martin’s spine straightens. “You should probably leave now.” His voice is gravelly, strained.

“Don’t think so.” His phone, containing the number of the on-site psychologist recruited for counselling, is in his pocket. It is late, but he has no scruples about calling if he has to. Martin seems just the type to refuse counselling out of a badly misjudged sense of bravery. 

Martin puts one hand into his hair and grips tightly. His breathing is ragged, teetering on the edge of control. 

John waits it out. They sit like this for long minutes where it seems equally likely that Martin will either break down and cry or put on a stiff upper lip and pretend he’s fine. 

“I thought about it,” he says finally. 

John doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to. He just waits.

“I almost… if there hadn’t been the danger to the engine…” He swallows and grits his teeth so violently the muscles in his jaw and temple stand out in stark relief. “And now he’s awake and well and _praising_ me, for God’s sake. How can I… And everyone’s congratulating me, but I almost… I almost killed a man today. My first officer, the man I was in charge of, my _friend_.”

For the first time since he started talking he looks at John, imploring him to understand, before dropping his gaze back to his knees. 

John waits a little longer to see if anything more is forthcoming. “Tell me why”, he finally prompts.

“I thought he was dead. His face in the window.” Martin grimaces. “The blood. I was so sure. And Arthur’s hands, he… he would never have let go on his own. Even if it killed him he’d have held on.”

“So why didn’t you? Give the order?”

“He was hanging off to the side. At that angle and speed, he could have hit the edge of the wing, damaging it and making us lose lift and control. Or worse, he could have got into the engine, causing it to fail. 

“And then…”

“And then we might have crashed. GERTI _can_ fly and land on one engine, but it makes her so much harder to control. And I didn’t know what else was damaged beside the window. And…” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “And I didn’t want to explain to his daughter why her father’s remains fit into a matchbox. God, that sounds so…”

“Compassionate?”

“Calculating.” 

“That too, yeah.” John shrugs. “Sometimes that's all you can do.” He does _not_ want to go into the details, explain why he's so familiar with the situation. He sums it up the only way he can. “Sucks.”

~~~

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” Martin's voice sounds whiny to his own ears. 

“What?”

“Being a captain.” Why is he still talking? He should have stopped 10 minutes ago. No, he shouldn't even have started. 

John huffs out a breath that is not quite a laugh. “Well. Being a passenger turned out rather different than I expected as well.”

“It’s stupid, I know.”

John sighs. “I flew to the other side of the world on a 3 week trip I couldn’t afford with my not-even-quite-girlfriend, hoping that the romance of joint travelling would bring us together.” Girlfriend. Well, that answered that question. “I am a 40 year-old man who has both travelled and been in relationships before, so I can’t even chalk it up to youthful naiveté. Stupid is what we do.”

Martin reaches for his glass of water and raises it in a toast. “To what we do.” They drink in silence. Martin really shouldn’t ask - “What happened to the girlfriend?” 

“Decided she likes New Zealand better than me. Or rather, that she likes it better _without_ me.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. So I got an early flight home, turned out the plane was overbooked and I got offered a seat on yours at the last minute.”

“And now you’re stuck here.” Babysitting a bundle of nerves. Martin bites his lip to stop himself from saying it. 

John shrugs and folds his hands behind his head, sinking deeper into the upholstery. His shirt rides up a little bit high, exposing a strip of tanned skin just above his trousers. “Could be worse.”

“How?” Martin asks without much thought behind it, mainly to keep the conversation going and distract John from his staring. The final scenes of the movie are playing in the background. John might leave soon. 

“Bleeding out in a ditch while your friends are dying all around trying to save you.”

Oh God. He was a soldier, why did he have to ask? “I’m so…”

“Don’t be. _I_ am sorry." John sits up. "It’s not something you need to hear.”

“Were you shot?”

John nods. “Shoulder. Just a stray bullet, not even aimed at me. Got invalidated out afterward.” He sits up, straightens his spine and visibly pulls himself out of this darkness his mind has wandered into. “So. In comparison, having charmed my way into the really nice suite of the hero of the day isn’t such a bad outcome.” 

Playful innuendo, there it is again. Martin is not good with that. Just when he keeps thinking he’s got John figured out, he says something like this, and Martin doesn’t know… He should just fire back a light-hearted comeback, but… He doesn’t even know what it means. _If_ it means something. Does it? John has girlfriends (but then, so did Martin, on three memorable occasions). Maybe that’s just how John is with everyone? The seconds are ticking by and Martin still hasn’t said anything. Say something. _Anything!_

“Anyway, it’s getting late.” John’s expression has sobered up. He sits up on the sofa and rolls the cricks out of his shoulders and neck. 

He’ll be gone in a minute. He’ll go to his room and they might never see each other again. “I should be going.” Don’t. “Should I leave the rest of the Chinese with you or bin it on the way…” John trails off as he takes in the expression on Martin’s face. God knows what he sees there. “Hey, are you…?”

It’s so simple in the end. All Martin has to do is lean forward, angle his head up just a bit and then his lips are pressing into John’s a little bit messy and a little bit wild. It’s a long, glorious moment, before his thinking brain slams down on the emergency brake. Oh god, shit _shit_ what is he doing, that is _worse_ that doing nothing ( _"...manages to combine both: doing whichever is least appropriate to the situation..."_ ) He’s falling, spiralling, frozen in flight. 

A hand slides into his hair and Martin squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable moment when John wrenches him away, shoves him back and… The hand cups the side of his head, not pushing or pulling, just holding him right there. 

John isn’t pushing him away.

Martin reaches out with his arms, reaching for John, and _still_ he isn’t pushing him away. 

And then John yelps and his mouth is gone. Why is it gone? What…? Martin blinks his eyes open. John is tugging at Martin’s hand where it is grasping John’s shoulder. His shoulder. Oh God. John had told him he was shot there not 5 minutes ago and here he is, digging his fingers right into it. 

Martin jerks his hand away like it’s been burnt and sits back. “John, shit, I am so…”

“Nuh uh.” The hand in Martin’s hair tightens marginally, sending fiery sparks down his spine. John presses another quick kiss to his mouth, then another, then stills, his forehead resting against Martin’s. “I’ll stay the night if you want. 

It takes Martin an embarrassingly long time to parse his words. “Yes.”

John grins and kisses him again, then breathes deeply and brings some hateful distance between them, enough that he can look into Martin’s eyes. “I mean you don’t have to sleep with me to make me stay. If you don’t want to be alone.”

Oh. Cold, heavy lead fills Martin’s stomach. He’ll take that, if it’s all he gets. But why has John kissed him?

“I mean…” John starts again, and this time his voice is slightly pained, “I _want_ to. Have been thinking about it for... well, I'm thinking about it now, certainly.” His gaze drops to Martin’s mouth as his thumb strokes over his cheekbone. The lead liquefies into a pulsing, twisting heat. “But I can just sleep here on the sofa, or in the bed, just sleeping, if that’s what you…”

“No”, Martin blurts out, for once not caring if he seems keen. 

“I mean it.”

“No!” Martin shakes his head. He's shaky and on edge, but if there's one thing he knows, it's that he wants John to keep touching him, touch _all_ of him.

“Alright. Alright.” Again John uses just a hint of pressure in his hair to steady him. Martin wants to melt into it, wants him to use both hands, give him more of that. 

John’s breath picks up. “You like that?” 

Martin nods just to feel his hair catch around John’s fingers. 

John grins and licks his lips. Martin can’t take his eyes away. “So tell me. What else do you like?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? A proper chapter! And ever so sloooowly are we inching up to that E rating....
> 
> 1 billion thousand thanks to [Myx](/users/Myx/pseuds/Myx), who betaed this and the following chapters. Let's hope our shared love of italics doesn't render the whole thing unreadable ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What else do you like?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story earns its rating here. Have a look at the updated tags to see if there's anything in there you'd rather not read. Everything is consentual, but there are some insecurities and not every desicion is 100% rational or safe or morally pure. If you have any questions, you can always contact me via quirkysubject at posteo dot de.

When Martin had said that he wasn’t “the type” to do this, John had chalked it up to the curly-haired-gorgeous-cheekbone-type not responding well to being flirted with in pubs. Not that he was _flirting_... well, that doesn't matter right now. 

What matters is that they apparently do respond to falling asleep half-drunk on the sofa, discussion of traumatic war experiences and all-around awkwardness, because suddenly he finds himself with a handful of pilot, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes and pleading with him to stay. 

Not that he is taking notes. 

And when he slides one hand into his hair, just far enough that the strands cling to his fingers but that he can still stroke Martin's face with his thumbs, it's easy, so easy. “What else do you like?”

Martin's eyes flutter shut. He looks like he’s on the verge of speaking, but no words escape his mouth. 

They have time. John has no idea how late it actually is, but he won’t hurry this. He lightly strokes through Martin’s hair and the man just about melts into his hands. “It’s okay. We can…”

But he doesn’t get far, because suddenly Martin is in his lap, and he doesn’t stop there even as John tries to grab a hold of him. He puts his hands on John’s hips and slides between his legs until he’s kneeling on the floor, staring up at John with huge, blue eyes. 

Jesus. John puts his hands on his own thighs, rubbing there lightly just to get the tension out. It’s not that he has a problem with this plan, exactly, it’s just that… There is something about Martin that makes him tread carefully, something awfully vulnerable that Martin would angrily reject if John let his feelings show. His dick on the other hand thinks this is a fucking brilliant idea. 

“I like slow,” John says, which isn’t the whole truth but isn’t quite _a lie_ either (slow is great, sometimes, but so’s fast and dirty and on nights after days like this, he usually goes for the latter). 

Martin nods and lowers his gaze as he works John’s belt open. John fumbles for the remote and turns the telly off. This he doesn’t want to be distracted from. 

Once John’s fly is open, Martin leans forward, presses his face into the crease of his thigh. The fact that John isn’t exactly freshly showered (midday feels like a long time ago) pops up in his mind, but Martin doesn’t appear to be bothered, so he tries to relax. 

And it’s easy to relax into it, because Martin knows what he's doing, rubbing him through his pants until he’s fully hard and straining against the fabric, aching for a proper touch. Finally, Martin takes him in hand, pushing his clothes just far enough out of the way. His touch is warm, his hands surprisingly calloused. Maybe he does some gardening in his spare time, or carpentry or…

Plush, firm lips close around the tip of his cock, an eager tongue presses against the frenulum, and Martins soft moan is swallowed by John’s. Oh, this is good, this is… 

This is a bit reckless, actually. 

John pushes lightly at Martin’s shoulder. “Hey, wait just a sec.” 

Martin complies and looks up at him, a questioning look on his face. His lips are red and spit-slick, there’s a sheen of sweat on the bridge of his nose and he’s already breathing heavily. He looks like a man John very much wants to get off with, right now, and it’s more than bit distracting. 

“You got anything? Condoms?” 

Martin lowers his head and takes a deep breath. “Are you… am I going need one?”

Considering that John was tested for everything under the sun during his recovery in the hospital and hasn’t had sex in almost two years (yes, this trip was a failure in every single measure up to this moment), the answer should be a resounding no, but then this is not something that Martin should just trust a stranger's word on. But on the other hand – his doctor brain helpfully supplies - the infections that are usually transmitted through oral sex are all very treatable, so it’s not a completely unreasonable risk to take. But on the _other_ other hand, John is not exactly an objective observer here so…

“Let me?” Martin puts his hand back on his dick, but keeps his mouth away, waiting for permission. John should not let him do that, but then Martin’s a grown man, isn’t he? And John’s just survived a fucking plane crash (well, as good as) and his insistence would be purely symbolic anyway and the last thing he wants to do right now is get up and run to his room for condoms and also… 

Also, John is not, after all, a terribly good man. 

He nods and Martin wastes no time taking him back into his mouth. He holds him steady with his hands as he licks along the length, swirling his tongue around the head in toe-curling circles. But it's less his technique than his enthusiasm that has John melting into the upholstery, rubbing his hands restlessly over his thighs and trying his best to keep his hips still. 

At first, John doesn’t even notice that Martin's hands are gone, as there are currently wet open-mouthed kisses being sucked all over his cock, but then there’s a rustle of clothing and a brief hesitation on Martin’s part, like he’s a bit distracted, and that gives him away. 

John risks a glance down and the sight sends a surge of lust through him, making his dick twitch against Martin’s lips. Martin has spread his knees farther apart on the floor, his trousers are hanging open and the tip of his red-hard cock is just peeking out of the circle of his fingers. He’s jacking himself slowly as he sucks John’s cock and the sight is so absolutely shameless that John _knows_ he’ll be done in a matter of two or three breaths if he keeps looking. 

He lets his head fall against the backrest and nudges Martin’s arm, the one working his own rock-hard dick because he _gets off on sucking John’s cock for fuck’s sake_ , lightly with his foot. “Don’t come.” He intends it as a playful request, one that the other man could easily ignore, but Martin groans and pulls off, resting his face against John’s thigh, breathing deeply. He sounds wrecked, like he was really close, and thank god John has said something, because he doesn’t want this to be over quickly. He’s got _plans_ for Martin. A bit hazy on the details perhaps, but plans nonetheless, and he won’t take a gamble on Martin having a short refractory period. 

When Martin’s breathing has calmed a little, when he leans forward and sucks John’s dick back into his mouth, he slowly, pointedly puts both hands on his back, his left hand grasping his right wrist. Now, John didn’t mean he couldn’t _touch_ himself, but maybe he is so close that wants to play it safe? 

It takes John a second to realize that Martin doesn’t just go back to sucking him like before, but that he sinks down, and down, and _down_ , so slowly, until his nose almost touches John’s abdomen and Martin's breathing stops. When he swallows, John can feel it in his _spine_. It feels… it feels bloody fantastic, but the not-breathing part is a bit worrying, so he cradles Martins head in his hands and tugs to pull him back up and get him breathing again, for Christ’s sake. Martin’s head is a heavyweight in his hands. Has he passed out? No, when John's cock pops out of his mouth, Martin stares up at him from under heavy-lidded eyes, lips open and slick with spit. 

“You okay?”

“Very.” A slight, almost lewd smile tugs at the corners of Martin’s mouth and that as much as his words sets John at ease. His gaze travels lower and, yeah, Martin is still rock hard. 

This is doing as much for him as it is for John. On a hunch, John loosens one hand from Martin’s hair and cups his jaw, rubbing his thumb over his perfect, swollen lower lip. “God, your mouth”, John whispers. Martin’s eyes fall closed and oh yes, John is definitely on to something. “Want me to put it back?” 

Martin nods and leans forward, but John tightens his grip and holds him back. 

“Eager.”

Martin’s breath hitches but he stays perfectly still. 

John breathes deeply as he pushes himself back into Martin’s mouth. Now, to John, getting a blowjob and fucking someone’s mouth are two entirely different things. He thought he was surrendering to the first, but Martin is clearly, pointedly offering himself up for the other. It’s darker, dirtier (though not necessarily better; there nothing quite like a talented tongue working just the tip of his cock), something he associates more with fantasy than real life.

John’s heart is thumping as he slides deeper and deeper, watching inch after inch disappear between those glorious lips. He stops when he feels the back of Martin’s throat and holds just for a second, revelling in the wet heat and the heady sense of control. God, he hopes the faint frown on Martin’s forehead is from concentration instead of pain. Just when he wants to draw back, Martin swallows again and shifts his head a little and _Jesus Christ_ the pressure that engulfs the tip of his cock is so tight and hot and unexpected he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. Another swallow ripples around him, and another and how does he _do_ that? John flexes his fingers in Martin’s hair, holding him tighter, just keeping him there a bit longer and... Martin makes a small, soft sound, low enough that John wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he hadn’t turned off the telly, accompanied by a clenching sensation around his dick that makes John gasp and… 

_Shit!_

He pulls Martin off him as fast as he can without actually tearing at his hair.

_Bollocking bloody…_

Martin tries to cough and breathe at the same time, sputtering a little, while John tries desperately to think of something he can do to stop feeling like the biggest arsehole on the planet. “Sorry, fuck!” He reaches for one of the glasses of water on the table, but Martin catches his hand and puts it resolutely back onto his head. 

“Don’t stop.” His voice is a little raspy, and there’s more than a few drops of spit clinging to his lips, but he still looks at John’s dick like it’s a prize. 

“Are you…”

Martin nods. “I’ll stop you if it gets too much.” He puts his hands on his back again and looks up at John. “Please.” 

Oh God. There’s no way in hell he’ll say no to that, but Martin looks so young and slight and breakable that… but he isn’t, is he? He’s nervous and quick to blush, a little awkward and even shorter than John, but he’s also an airline captain who kept his cool under pressure to save his crew and passenger when circumstances turned dire. 

And oh, John wants it. The sight of Martin on his knees, waiting patiently for him to use his pretty mouth as he pleases, putting the decision of when and how much he gets to breathe into John’s hands… Christ, he has to get a move on if he doesn’t want to come just from staring at Martin’s gorgeous face, painting it with thick streaks of… 

He reaches for the base of his cock and grips hard, gritting his teeth. Martin raises his eyebrows, half expectant, half come-hither, and the hint of a smug grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Cocky bastard. John uses his grip to point his dick directly at Martin’s mouth. 

This time, he doesn’t wait for Martin to take in those final inches. 

~~~

_Don’t stop please don’t stop hold me down don’t let go can’t breathe let me breathe please let me…._

He’s pulled back by steady hands, until John’s cock is a heavy weight resting against his lips. He keeps the coughing down as much as he can so it doesn’t alarm John and draws in quick, shallow breaths. The muscles in his lower back are burning from being tilted forward without hands to support his weight, his cock is aching and heavy with arousal, his throat tender from the strain. 

_Talk to me_ , he thinks. _Please. Tell me…_ But he can’t say what he wants to hear, and there are so many wrong things to say, so maybe it’s better if John keeps to wordless groans. 

(This is why he doesn’t pick up people in pubs. He tried it twice and got this far and then everything went to shit. There had only been Victor who’d ever got it right, the exchange student back in Fitton who’d actually taken him out to dinner before taking him to bed, whose eyes had grown wide with delight when he found out what Martin could do - not that Martin hadn’t been just as surprised when he found he liked it, now that it wasn’t gruelling practice runs with toothbrushes and courgettes, because Martin was anything if not dedicated and willing to go the extra mile - and then said all the right things to him. And then he ‘d gone back to Finland or Sweden or wherever it was to open up a salmon farm and the best six weeks of Martin’s life had ended.) 

He lets himself fall into it until it becomes the only thing in the world. Slide in, hold, swallow until John whimpers above him and pulls out a little sooner than necessary, breathe once, twice, slide in… Sometimes John rubs his cock all over Martin’s face while he waits for him to get his breath back and Martin basks in the attention, the warmth radiating from the hands cradling his skull, the sheer debauchery of it all. Sometimes he barely has time to gulp down enough air before he’s filled up again, stuffed to the brim with that thick cock until he sees stars. 

“Gorgeous.” 

A bright surge of arousal rolls through Martin’s chest and belly down to his aching cock, cresting, blinding him with its white heat. A torn noise wrenches itself from his throat. He _feels_ John hesitate, and no, no, _no_ that is not what he wants, that is the opposite of what should happen right now. He forces his eyes open and looks up at John’s almost pained expression. 

“Alright”, he asks and how can he still be asking this? 

Martin nods, wills John to understand, to read in his eyes what he can’t say _(please don’t make me say it)._

John licks his lips and tightens his grip on Martin’s head. He slides his cock back in, slow but firm and deep, just like before. “So good.” There is no space for him to go deeper but that doesn’t mean Martin doesn’t try. “Oh God, you’re so…” Slide out, breathe, slide in. “So fucking good. You’re mouth…” Out and in. “I could fuck your mouth forever, would you…” Out and in. “Would you like that?” 

Martin tries to nod and it changes the angle and it makes him gag a little bit, but it’s all good because John sets him back on course and his cock only seems to grow harder and thicker by the second. “Yeah, okay, you would, wouldn’t you. God, you’d fucking kill me.” His pace increases a little. “Can I try something?” 

Anything, Martin wants to scream if only he had air to waste for anything but that glorious cock fucking into him. 

“Okay just… tap my leg if you want me to stop.” He pulls out again. “Deep breath.”

He pushes in again, sliding home in one smooth thrust, but he doesn’t stay long, barely giving Martin time to revel in it. He pulls out just an inch or two, leaving most of his cock buried deep in Martin’s mouth, before pushing back in. Quick, sharp thrusts follow in quick succession, and sometimes Martin manages to gulp down a half breath before he’s cut off again, sometimes not even that. His eyes are stinging and his scalp is burning from being pulled back and forth and he’s light-headed from the lack of air, but he just wants more, all of it, let himself sink into this place where he’s the focal point of someone else's pleasure as the steady stream words washes over him.

“…incredible. So fucking good…”

Martin digs his fingers into his wrist until they hurt, he wants to touch himself so much. But not yet, not yet. This is going to be so much better if he doesn’t, and John told him not to and now…

“Going to come. How do you - _fuck_ \- how do you want me?” John pulls Martin off, obviously expecting an answer, as if Martin cared. He looks up, forcing his lead-heavy eyes open and just shakes his head, then tries to dive back in, only to be held back by two gentle hands cradling his face. He wants to scream. Everything was going _perfectly_ and now he’d have to talk and explain and he _can’t_ , he’ll become flustered and stutter and then John’s going to be frustrated with him and…

“Shh, alright, I’ve got you. Just don’t wanna fuck this up. You’re doing so well.” He brushes Martin’s hair back from his forehead with one hand. “You want me to come down your throat?” Martin nods, because yes, that’s just what he… “Or on your pretty face?” He nods again and has to bite his lip, because the mere thought of being held in place while John comes all over him is just… “Your lips?” Oh God, yes please, that. “Just for the record, I _could_ get a kleenex and… no, I didn’t think so.” John smiles and guides him back into position. “This won’t take long.”

And when his cock pushes back into Martin’s throat, it feels raw and dry and on some level he knows he can’t go on much longer and should be glad it’s going to be over soon, but he doesn’t _want_ this to end, doesn’t want John to stop telling him…

“Oh yes, that’s it, Christ, so beautiful. Open up, _fuck_ that’s it. Is this okay? Please let me... God, you're so fucking good, I just…” John’s going at it with the same quick thrusts that brought him close before, but his pace becomes even faster, and he’s not going to stop until he’s finished, not caring if Martin can breathe or not, if he’s getting any air at all, if he’s gagging on some of the angles, single-mindedly hunting his own pleasure and using Martin as a means to that end. 

It’s glorious.

“Oh fuck.” It ends on a soft, breathy sigh. John's cock swells and pulses deep inside him, leaving him no choice but to accept the come that spurts down his throat for long seconds. Then he’s pulled off, just enough that the rest lands smeared on his lips, his cheek, hot and bitter evidence of John’s pleasure. 

John stills while Martin remains as he is. Is he allowed to touch himself now? God, he wants to come just like this, with John over him and the taste of his come in Martin’s mouth and his words still ringing in his ears. He looks up to find John staring down at him with eyes wide like saucers. 

“Holy shit.” He’s panting and staring and Martin becomes uncomfortable aware what he must look like, kneeling on the floor, still hard, face smeared with semen, filthy and… 

“Stunning.” John’s thumb finds its way to Martin’s cheek, wiping some of the mess away. Martin angles his head to catch the thumb between his lips and sucks it clean. John huffs out a breath, somewhere between a groan and laugh before he takes his thumb away and swerves down to catch him in a kiss. Martin tries to push him away because he’s disgusting, but John just laughs and dives in again.

Then Martin is being hauled up onto unsteady legs and John supports him with an arm around his middle as he leads him to the bed. He lies down, shaky and buzzing and with his cock still throbbing where it’s rubbing against the tails of his shirt. 

John kicks off the trousers that are still wrapped around his legs, pulls his pants back up and grabs a glass of water from the couch table and before he follows Martin onto the bed. “Here, drink that.”

The water feels icy and harsh in his abused throat and he winces as he swallows it down.

“Shit. I’ve got some lozenges in my toiletries bag if you…”

Thank God John’s still wearing his t-shirt, because that means Martin has something to hold on to as he hauls him down into a kiss. He doesn’t want a _lozenge_. He feels John smile against him, indulging him for a moment before taking over, holding his face between both hands and taking him apart one small lick and tender bite at a time. 

Finally, John breaks the kiss to straddle Martin’s thighs, sitting just a millimeter too low to give him pressure where he wants it most. Martin blinks up at him. John looks calm and in charge above him, only his dark eyes and bitten lips giving him away. Martin is still almost completely dressed and he desperately wishes he’d taken his clothes off when he had the chance. They’re warm and stuffy and scratching against his heated skin.

John strokes up and down his stomach and chest a few times, then idly tugs at the buttons, bottom to top, as if they had all the time in the world. He opens Martin’s shirt and rubs one exposed nipple, and after all this time that one touch is enough to make him moan and wriggle up against John in search for friction.

“Gorgeous.” The word makes him blush and gasp and wanting to hide his face and beg to hear it again. “You look fantastic like that, you know that?” His hands drift down, down until he can rub Martin’s raging erection through his open trousers. Finally, _finally_! “So hard for me.” Martin’s cock twitches and is met with a maddening little squeeze of John’s hand. “You really get off on sucking cock, don’t you?”

It’s fine. It’s all fine, it’s true after all, he does. Martin tries to control his face, to nod and sigh and writhe, just like he had before. It isn't a _wrong_ thing so say, not quite, and John had been so good before, it’s just that that’s where all the others veered off course and it all became awful and…

“I would too if I had a mouth as talented as yours.” A thumb presses softly against his lower lip and Martin immediately sucks it inside, swirling his tongue around it. “Would want to show it off.” His voice is so warm Martin can hear the smile in it. He manages to relax himself a little, hoping he doesn’t regret it. (Even if, it’s worth it. Take what you can now, deal with the rest later). He bites down lightly. John's ”Fuck, yes” is reverent. 

He loses himself in it, until John shifts and withdraws and makes short work of Martin's trousers and pants. He’s exposed like this, in nothing but his shirt, and thank God it’s night and they only have the weak bedside lamp on because he looks awfully skinny and pale by daylight. The next thing he knows is John mouthing along his too prominent hip-bone, then curving inside.

“You don’t have to," he whispers. 

A pause. 

Martin is trying not to be disappointed, because it’s not like he doesn’t _want_ John to… 

“You think I’m gonna pass up a cock as pretty as this?” John sounds almost offended, like he’s not even trying to flatter Martin. He doesn’t get much time to ponder this remark, though, as he’s suddenly gripped by a strong, warm hand and slick-hot lips engulf the tip of his cock. John doesn’t take him deep, but works him so sloppy and wet that Martin can’t even tell where his mouth stops and his hands begin. 

“This okay?” 

One spit-slick finger slides down over his balls and Martin doesn’t say anything, just spreads his legs wider. 

“Oh Christ, you…” John’s finger circles his hole, pressing and massaging over and over again until Martin hooks one leg over John’s shoulder and tries to pull him in, futile though it is. John chuckles, lightly bites his thigh and pushes his finger inside. 

Martin wonders if John wants to fuck him. He’d probably let him if he asked, although he’d never done this with anyone (Victor never brought it up and Martin had never found the nerve to ask). The thought is exciting, frightening in many good ways and some bad, but then John’s finger is circling again, only this time it’s inside of him, and Martin’s breath catches. It doesn’t feel _good_ exactly, just intense, like he needs him to stop and press harder at the same time. 

“Tell me if this isn’t okay.”

“It’s… It’s…” Martin can only whisper, whether it’s because of his sore throat or whatever the hell John is doing to him. He just nods. 

John centres his finger and _wriggles_ and at that Martin’s hand flies to his own erection, tugging and pressing because he can’t not. It feels so, so good, like his hand and John’s finger are connected, working his cock inside and out. He only gets a few moments of bliss before his hand is being pushed away, gently but firmly, and Martin would scream in frustration if he had the voice for it. He slides his free hand into his hair and tugs, shakes his head from side to side, rubbing his scalp against the pillow like a loon, desperate for any friction he can get.

“Do you have any idea… _any_ idea how you look right now?”

He’s almost there, almost, if he could just give himself that one stroke, two at most, it’d be all it takes, God, _please_ … He moves his hand out of his hair and covers his face because he’s grimacing and it’s too much, too much. 

“…makes me want to keep you there, just like this, just so I can keep looking at you.” 

Lord have mercy. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, bites down against the double assault of John’s finger rubbing, vibrating almost, so deep inside him, and his words washing through his brain, setting him alight like spilt fuel after a crash. 

“So fucking beautiful.” John lets go of his hand, but doesn’t give him a chance to reach for his cock because John is there first. “Come on, let me see your face, I want to…” 

John doesn’t even finish the second stroke.

~~~

Martin’s body stretches taught like a bow when he comes, every muscle tightening, squeezing around John’s finger hard enough that he’s worried it might be hurting him, wrecked sounds tearing themselves from his throat. 

It’s not beautiful, although that’s the word John uses when he talks Martin through it, it’s stark and messy and raw.

Afterwards, Martin is sluggish and uncoordinated, yet still paws at John trying to rid him of the come that has splashed onto his hands and shirt, until John extracts himself and gets a towel from the bathroom to clean them both up. 

He'd always thought he'd feel shame and embarrassment afterwards. Now that it's no longer deniable what he's done, what he _likes_. This wasn't a dark night in a cramped military camp far away, where the touch of another human being felt as necessary as air and water. He'd had more than enough chances to pull away. It wouldn't have taken more than a hint for Martin to back off. And if all he wanted was to get his rocks off... well, he's pretty sure some of Martin's admirers wouldn't have said no to a consolation prize. 

No, this was what he wanted. He's put a cock in his mouth (although he could have gotten away with a sloppy handjob) and put his finger in another man's arse (although Martin wouldn't have needed it to get off) and here he is, in the bright light of the overhead lamp, washing the come off another man's belly and it's... it's fine, really.

It's something he's said often enough, to friends and colleagues and (occasionally) flat mates, and he's _meant_ it, of course he did, but now he feels it. It _is_ fine.

Martin points out at a spot on John’s chin with his finger, grimacing apologetically.

John wipes it off and shrugs. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Martin blushes. “Wasn’t at my most coordinated”, he croaks and tries to clear his throat. 

“Jesus, your voice sounds like shit!” John blurts it out before he has time to adjust to a more diplomatic tone. 

“Don’t worry, it’ll be back to normal in a few days.” 

John doesn’t ask what he wants to ask, which is ‘how often do you do this, Mr. No Pick-Ups in Pubs But Will Deep-Throat Like A Pro If You Call Me Pretty, and did any of those lucky fuckers wake you up with a foot massage and a giant bouquet of roses like you deserve?’ But that’s not his place. He gets up and steps into his discarded jeans. 

There’s an electric kettle on the small sideboard over the mini-bar with an assortment of teas and instant coffee beside it. “Let me make you some chamomile tea, at least, so I don’t feel like a complete bastard.”

“John…”

“No, sorry.” He puts the kettle on and fiddles with a tea bag. “Don’t want to make you feel bad. It’s just…" He turns back around and puts his hands on his hips. "You _are_..." fantastic, brave, sexy? – "...quite something; you realize that, right?” 

“I really don’t…”

John holds up a hand and tried to keep his voice light. “No more speaking. Doctors orders.” 

Martin complies, probably glad about the easy out of the conversation. John hands him the tea and watches in silence as he takes the first careful sip. Martin grimaces. 

“Too hot?” 

“Just remembered I have an interview with the investigation team tomorrow.”

John winces in sympathy. “Well. You got blasted by minus 30 degree winds today, plus all that shouting in order to communicate with ATC… want me to write you a medical certificate?”

Martin chuckles, coughs a little and takes another sip. “Just some tea, a good night’s sleep, and I’ll be right as rain.” 

Should John repeat his offer to stay? Martin seems alright, more relaxed than any time John has seen him, but what if the anxiousness returns? What they did had been, well, _intense_ , to say the least. 

Martin puts the cup on the bedside table, tugs the blankets up around him and yawns.

Right. John takes that as his cue and picks up his jacket. “Alright then. You'll be fine?” 

Martin nods, looking calm and sleepy and (John notes smugly) sated. 

John realizes he has no idea if he’ll be required to stay in town for the investigation as well or if he’ll be flown out tomorrow with the other passengers. He should probably have spent his evening finding those things out instead of… On second thought, no. No, there would have been no better way to spend his evening than he did. He makes his way to the door, pauses briefly. “See you at breakfast, probably?” 

"Yeah, breakfast."

"Goodnight then." 

"Hmm." It's more a sleepy sigh than an answer. 

John takes one last look at Martin, lying still and quiet in that large bed. Whatever else he'd take away from that evening, at least he might get a decent night's sleep.

Some days, that is a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so everything that happened was entirely Martin's idea, I swear. I'm super nervous about posting this, because I have no idea if I've managed to strike the right balance between rough and caring that I envisioned. So... tell me I did good? 
> 
> Thanks to [Myx](/users/Myx/pseuds/Myx) for betaing and commenting on this and the following chapters. Any remaining errors and inconsistencies are mine alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years later.

`"The accident happened when the aircraft was climbing through 17,300 feet on departure from Christchurch International Airport en route for Singapore. The right windscreen, which had been replaced prior to the flight, was blown out under effects of the cabin pressure when it overcame the retention of the securing bolts, 84 of which, out of a total of 90, were of smaller than specified diameter. The first officer was sucked halfway out of the windscreen aperture and was restrained by the cabin crew with the help of a passenger whilst the commander flew the aircraft to a safe landing at Hood Airodrome, Masterton. `

`[...]`

` The commander immediately took control of the aircraft and was able to establish a rapid descent despite the disorienting effects of the dramatically transformed cockpit environment coupled with a push over and right roll. It was fortunate that he was an experienced pilot with more than 1,000 hours experience of flying the Lockheed McDonnell 3-12 aircraft. Thus he was able to handle the aircraft on his own and complete the normal operating procedures from memory without the assistance of another pilot. He alone was faced with a double emergency, namely rapid decompression and incapacitation of the handling pilot. He rejected the idea of donning his oxygen mask in favour of being able to shout instructions to his cabin crew. `

`[...]`

`Three factors have been identified as having contributed to the loss of the windscreen: `

`A safety critical task, not identified as a 'Vital Point', was undertaken by one individual who also carried total responsibility for the quality achieved and the installation was not tested until the aircraft was airborne on a passenger carrying flight. `

`The Shift Maintenance Manager's potential to achieve quality in the windscreen fitting process was eroded by his inadequate care, poor trade practices, failure to adhere to company's standards and use of unsuitable equipment, which were judged symptomatic of a longer term failure by him to observe the promulgated procedures. `

`The airport's local management, Product Samples and Quality Audits had not detected the existence of inadequate standards employed by the Shift Maintenance Manager because they did not monitor directly the working practices of Shift Maintenance Managers.`

`[...]`

`The crew were faced with an instantaneous and unforeseen emergency. The combined actions of the captain and cabin crew successfully averted what could have been a major catastrophe. The fact that all those on board the aircraft survived is a tribute to their quick thinking and perseverance in the face of a shocking experience."`

"Cab's here."

John closes the report. He looks up to find Sherlock observing him in the mirror as he fiddles with the lapels of his jacket. How he knows about the cab without being able to look out of the window is – as always – a mystery to John, one he's long since resigned himself to never uncovering. 

He puts the report on the coffee table and stretches his arms over his head, taking another moment to make the mental shift from three years ago to today. Even just reading the factual report is enough to whirl him back to that eventful day. And night. 

Life with Sherlock meant that he didn't get much time to process everything that happened – what with all those blackmailing dominatrixes and murderous hounds having their sights on them, and of course Moriarty, always Moriarty, insinuating himself into their lives like a wedge, only to push them into finally facing admitting what they mean to each other. 

But still, John has always kept his eyes open for news of the accident investigation. The crew received a hero's return complete with Valuable Service Medals for all involved. They made the rounds on the telly for a while and even appeared in a delightful if unhinged segment of The Tonight Show. He checked their website occasionally, whose appearance became slightly more professional over time, and was bluntly informed by a banner that there were no bookings available for the next two years, so there was nothing to worry about on that level. 

Martin though. They'd never met at breakfast the next morning, as John had overslept and then been flown out that same evening. He'd thought about getting in touch more than a few times, but it had always felt wrong. What was he going to say? "Great appearance on Conan, and by the way, thanks for resolving my sexual identity crisis"? "Hey, I still feel kind of like a dick for agreeing to do this to you, so let me none too subtly prod you into telling me I'm a good guy"? Even John is too self-aware for that.

He takes heart in the fact that Martin looks absolutely fantastic in the promo pics on the company website. Wearing a smart uniform, confidently posing in his captain's seat, consulting the weather charts with his first officer... it's all PR of course: professional, tastefully retouched photographs, carefully chosen for the image they project. But John has seen Martin crushed and he's seen him elated and he believes that he'd sense it if anything were truly wrong. 

An impatient foot tapping on the floor shakes him out of his reverie. 

"May I remind you it was _you_ who insisted on going out tonight?"

"The cabbie can wait just another second," John says, but he leaps to his feet and reaches for his coat. Sherlock looks peeved. He has spent the day lounging about in his dressing gown and making it very clear to John that he was only getting dressed to go out because he had promised to and was being a Good Boyfriend. "You're a generous tipper."

Sherlock huffs as he tugs on his gloves, but there's an almost smile playing around his lips.

John slips into his shoes and pulls the door open. "After you." He puts one hand on the small of Sherlock's back, guiding him out of the flat. With Sherlock's back to him as he walks down the stairs, John allows himself a quick deep breath to steady his nerves. His pulse jumps as his fingers skim over the small box in his pocket. All the secrecy is probably in vain, as there's a more than 50% chance that Sherlock already knows what he's planning. He usually does. 

John's eyes fall on the report lying on the coffee table. He had known, theoretically, that an accident report would be forthcoming at some point, but after three years it had drifted to the back of his mind. Maybe it was a good omen that the file had been in the mailbox today. Or he is just being sentimental.

"John, what on earth is going on with you?" Sherlock stands in the open door to 221b, looking half-way to running up the stairs again and dragging John down into the cab that is just visible sitting on the kerb. "Your pace is glacial on the best of days, but today..."

John lets the rest of the tirade wash over him, biting his lips to contain his grin before he lets the door fall shut and follows Sherlock down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's almost it, only a brief epilogue to go. 
> 
> The beginning section is quoted almost verbatim from the accident report. I found it a very satisfying read.


	7. Epilogue

Douglas made a full recovery. If he tends to keep his seatbelt on even at cruising height nowadays, no one says anything about it. He and Martin never talked about the accident, but after his return to the flight deck, Douglas took him out for a pint or five. Sources close to MJN say a manly hug was exchanged at the end. 

Arthur reassuringly informs every passenger he welcomes on board that he's double checked all window fittings himself and that they haven't had a blowout in months. It is outside anyone's power to stop him.

Martin passed his interview with flying colours. Sometimes, the doubts and worries creep back up when he's least expecting them, but the whirlwind press tour and heavy work schedule as MJN was flooded with booking requests following the publicity kept him occupied. Passengers, colleagues (not Douglas, obviously, but other pilots), _strangers_ , have taken to calling him "Captain", sometimes even when he is not wearing his hat. And he's learned that that the secret to picking up the right people is not pubs. It's waiting for someone headstrong enough to barge in mid-flight and commandeer his flight deck in a crisis. It's not what flight safety guidelines recommend, but then Martin is not planning to make a habit of this. He's got all the princesses he needs. 

Business booming, Carolyn was never forced to auction GERTI off. The crew of MJN are still flying around in their overweight plane, unaware of her bellyful of gold.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for everyone who read, commented, and kudoed - especially to [whocares](/users/whocares/pseuds/whocares) for commenting like a champ and [Myx](/users/Myx/pseuds/Myx) for her fabulous beta work.
> 
> The accident I write about in the opening chapter really happened more or less exactly like this on British Airways Flight 5390. Most of the details and ATC communications are taken directly from the accident report. It's been featured on the series Air Crash Investigation/Mayday in an episode called "Blowout". It's on Youtube and it's fascinating, give it a watch.


End file.
